


Old Scripture

by ThunderPhang



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Bastardism, Canonical Character Death, Fluff, Isolation, M/M, as much as i love the horrible bastard, content warning for elias being an omniscient creep to bystanders, elias hurts because i said so, he must suffer for his crimes, im not apologising for this, post-159, s4 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-22 11:56:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22449223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThunderPhang/pseuds/ThunderPhang
Summary: Peter likes to quote things. Old things.The three times he did, and well, the only time he couldn't.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas
Comments: 8
Kudos: 113





	Old Scripture

**Author's Note:**

> been sitting on some jonmartin in the backburner but my body's impulsive reflex to hurt elias bouchard knows no bounds. i also have a lot of thoughts of how prolonged exposure to the lonely is not a good thing, and how peter is the real winner post-159 (in any lonelyeyes capacity). elias had this coming.

_ “Sunset and evening star, _

_ And one clear call for me! _

_ And may there be no moaning of the bar, _

_ When I put out to sea," _

Peter sighed the first stanza out to the frigid air, fetching the tobacco pipe from his pocket. His voice carried on the wind as the hull of  _ The Tundra  _ groaned against the waves, her form the only visible shape in the dense fog. Empty eyes stared out to the nothingness ahead before he closed his eyes to the world around him.

A splash of sea spray shot up the side, stinging against his face as it returned to the ocean. A whisper of the wind whistled past his ears. There was no resonant echo. No other voice that inflicted on him unwarranted company.

Just him, and the stinging discomfort in his heart that came as readily as it did breathing. A constant that welcomed so openly with open arms. The furthest one could be from the rest of the world. Nobody could reach him here. Not truly.

Peter brought the pipe to his lips, his other hand dipping into his coat pocket to fetch for his matchbook. His slow, lethargic movements froze, a shudder having shot down his spine. A distinct disgust welled in his chest, opening his eyes and breathing deeply. Disappointment.

_ Almost  _ nobody.

There was a welling of static, high and nuanced as the fog curled to Peter’s side.

“James.” Peter turned his head to his left, but didn’t give the burning sensation at the base of his neck the satisfaction of being given eye contact. Staring back into the Eye was a repulsive, revolting thing and more so that it’d managed to slip through the cracks unaware. A personal breach of his privacy, his abode, his  _ home _ , and the Ceaseless Watcher had delighted in poking its holes in it.

A moment passed, and the sensation persisted.

Peter brought his attention back to the crashing waves that were deafening as they rolled past. The fog soon encased him whole, as he exhaled out a heavy, echoing static.

“I’d like to be left alone.”

The captain vanished from the deck of  _ The Tundra  _ without so much as a noise. 

It irritated him that he was forced to push himself away, even while at sea.

* * *

_ “But such a tide as moving seems asleep, _

_ Too full for sound and foam, _

_ When that which drew from out the boundless deep _

_ Turns again home.” _

Peter sang the second stanza with a much unneeded gusto, an empty smile curled on his lips as he addressed Elias with an open hand.

“ _ Crossing the Bar _ ,” Elias stated matter-of-factly, his gaze fixed on the spreadsheet before him, “Published in 1889, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. I recall you reciting it before.” He brought his chin up, flickering the intensity of his gaze to bear down on Peter’s intrusion. “A bit  _ old  _ for your tastes, wouldn’t you say?”

Peter hummed, the discomfort registering in how he swayed about the office. His attention was brought to one of the multitudes of shelves, plucking a tome from them and shrugging,

“I’m allowed to have an appreciation for things outside my time, aren’t I?” He discarded the book by the nearest coffee table, waltzing up and over to Elias’ desk. Elias had already returned to moving about columns and, quite obviously, was disregarding the blatant disrespect that Peter infringed against his office. How endearing it was, Peter noted as he made his way around the desk, leaning over Elias’ chair and wrapping his arms around his shoulders. He delicately leaned his cold weight against him, resting his chin on the back of Elias’ neck with a chilled exhale.

Elias, if he were any more agitated, didn’t show it beyond his body’s instinctual need to shiver in the cold.

“I appreciate  _ you _ , as intrusive as you might be.” Peter mused aloud, smirking against his skin. Elias huffed in response, in the typical roundabout way that he  _ thought  _ was him being upset with Peter, but they both knew there was truth to his words. 

“It is rude to ask a gentleman his age, Peter.” Elias retorted, “Even more so if you make an effort to point it out to him. Didn’t your mother teach you the basics of etiquette?”

Peter pressed a cold, delicate kiss to Elias’ neck and stifled a chuckle, “She didn’t teach me anything, actually. Really, Elias. I would’ve thought you would’ve known this by now.”

“You don’t exactly make it easy.” Elias spoke, breaking away from the keyboard to address the man who hung across him like a desperate puppy, pawing for his attention.

Peter rose one hand to cup Elias’ cheek, calloused fingers caressing it softly. “Am I supposed to?” Peter asked, turning his head to stare. Elias had paused his work, the stern expression the most delightful deterrent and the perfect excuse for Peter to leave, to satiate that need for repulsion in his heart.

And all the same, Peter had dug his hooks in deep.

“No, I don’t suppose you are.” Elias finally said.

Peter took that as an open invitation, sliding himself around to take a comfortable seat on Elias’ lap, straddling him between both legs. Elias knitted his brows together, the slightest frown taking form as he was barred from his work.

“However,” Elias added, maneuvering his arms to snake around Peter and relax on his keyboard. “That doesn’t mean you impose yourself at every availability to make things  _ difficult  _ .”

“Oh? And here I thought you wanted a distraction. What was it you said earlier?  _ This budget is giving me a headache?  _ ” Peter chimed heartily, a mischievous glint in his vacant eyes.

“And I also recall saying not to intrude on my office without knocking, Peter.” Elias sniped. Not that Peter particularly cared, crowding Elias as far into his own chair as he could muster. Elias’ stare narrowed, unable to right himself with the pressing weight against him.

Peter tilted his head and raised both brows. “Well, Elias?”

Elias scoffed, surrendering to wrap his arms around Peter’s waist, ”Fine. But don’t think you can get away with this again.”

Peter most certainly did.

Peter grinned as he dipped Elias into the first of many kisses.

* * *

_ “Twilight and evening bell, _

_ And after that the dark! _

_ And may there be no sadness or farewell, _

_ When I embark;” _

Peter spoke the third stanza to Elias, who sat stiffly with his back against the chair, head arched backwards so he could stare down his visitor. Elias didn’t blink. He never did. His gaze wasn’t fond, but wasn’t vicious. Just sharp, distant, and analytical. 

“Again with the poem.” Elias started, pulling himself forward and straightening up. To see him in such a state - hair somewhat unkempt, wrinkles and creases within his typically pressed suit, and a fatigued quality to his frame. Nothing  _ not  _ Elias, however, just…  _ mortal _ , from a glance. Sure, he was still put together, and still grooming himself according to his standards, but this place was by no means the ivory tower of his Institute, nor his chromium throne. 

And yet, the leniencies he must be allowed in prison. Everyone, under his thumb. A pity he couldn’t get dry cleaning, or Peter might’ve believed everyone to be under his heel.

“Lost weight recently?” Peter commented as he rocked forward on his heels, pacing the room and inspecting every bland corner he could find rather than address Elias physically. “I felt like the poem was fitting. Especially once I win the bet.”

Neither comments were received well, Elias exhaling heavily as he folded his arms in his lap, a soft clink of metal from the cuffs around his wrist.

“Is there a reason for the unannounced visit, Peter? I don’t recall giving you visitation rights.” Elias asked, a touch too loudly. If he was trying to get someone’s attention, it wasn’t going to work. Peter had seen to that.

Elias knew that. The question was still pertinent.

Peter finally waltzed over to the table, leaning onto the edge of it with folded arms. “Oh, I just came to have a chat with my husband.” He spoke aloud, gesturing to the walls with an open palm. “Surely you’ve gotten bored playing pretend in here, haven’t you?” 

“Whatever do you mean?” Elias shot back, an inquisitive expression. Fake, naturally, as Peter’s frown told that he knew Elias was intentionally provoking him. It was always like that with him, fishing for answers he already knew and getting a rise out of people. Peter not-so-pleasantly slammed his hand down onto the table, flaring his nostrils. Elias didn’t so much as flinch, lulling his head to one side like a curious cat. Mocking.

“You know what I mean, Elias.” Peter started, voice low. “You’re more than capable of leaving whenever you wanted, but you’re still here. Someone would think you’re a princess in a tower.”

“And what exactly would leaving achieve?” Elias hummed, crossing one leg over the other and maintaining that stiff, professional demeanour about him. Without the giving interior, this could be considered just to be another office visit, with Elias being every bit stubborn, and Peter being every bit irritated by his husband’s calm and collected veneer. 

“Let’s say, for hypothetical reasons, I escape this place.” Elias started, pushing himself up and out of his chair to stand up and address Peter. A stray glance went to the cameras nestled in the corner of the visitor’s room, but quickly returned to his guest. “Where exactly would that put me? Free, yes, but a wanted man.” He stretched his arms out as far as he could before his cuffs stopped him, the metal rattling. “And that’s a touch inconvenient, isn’t it? I couldn’t exactly return to my Institute if I wanted to. Suffice it to say, I am  _ quite  _ trapped here.”

Peter’s face hardened, not bothering to search for any possible hidden connotations in Elias’ words. There was no point, given that Elias raised a perfect point. He’d be flocked to by the police in a matter of seconds. Elias may be a man of many talents, but it would get him killed if he did anything short of a risky play.

The captain rolled his eyes, stepping his weight away from the table to guide his hands onto Elias’ waist. “...I suppose you are.” Peter surrendered, but not without an absent smirk. “If I were feeling generous, I would offer you an exit. But I don’t think so. How many wins would that make this now?”

Elias huffed through his nose, clearly displeased that Peter’s mind was more on his win streak than it was his husband’s imprisonment. Telling of the man’s priorities. “It would make it your twentieth.” Elias reminded him, staring up at him, “Really, for a man who gloats as much as you, it would do you well to remember one of these days.”

“Maybe I just want to hear you tell me.” Peter tugged Elias closer, bowing his head. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”

Elias brought both arms up, careful to work them up and over Peter’s head, before resting his hands on his shoulders, the cuffs cold and tight against his neck. He pulled down on it, arching Peter to his level. 

“I’m starting to think your visits are only to boost that bloated ego of yours.” Elias said plainly, intones of faux disappointment.

“What can I say?” Peter pressed their heads together, voice just above a whisper. “You do make it rather easy to.”

Elias exhaled sharply, bringing his hands up and cup Peter through his unkempt beard before sinking him into a deep, indulgent kiss. Stinging and numbing all the same, the sensation that Elias had found himself missing. Peter’s grip tightened, the faintest, delighted noise of surprise escaping him as he started to sway, leading Elias into the gentle rockings of a slow waltz. There was no music, but the bradycardia of Peter’s heart was steady enough for them both to move to, feet shuffling lazily against the concrete.

“You’re insufferable.” Elias murmured once he’d pulled away, resting his head against Peter’s chest.

“I aim to please.” Peter chuckled, angling Elias’ chin up to kiss him again.

* * *

_ “For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place _

_ The flood may bear me far, _

_ I hope to see my Pilot face to face _

_ When I have crost the bar.” _

Jonah murmured the final stanza to the empty air as he walked the length pier. He was bundled in a coat that was far too large on him, a coat that carried the scent of sea foam and forgotten fog. 

It didn’t do anything to keep him warm. 

It was good at keeping the chill in his bones.

Jonah continued, his steps echoed on the boardwalk across the aged wood. It creaked and gave way as he crossed it, his eyes cutting through the morning mist that blanketed the port. Shapes, distant and close, loomed over him with groaning metal, the ships imposing their weight and presence lording over the single man. Nothing else stirred here, in the early dawn. If they did, none of them heeded Jonah’s slow pace toward the edge.

Jonah stopped short of the end. His hands were buried in the coat’s pocket, watching as his clouded breath mingled with the mist. He retreated his nose into the grey scarf wrapped securely around his neck, gaze pointed down at the dark waters. Nothing but the reflection of Elias Bouchard, right back at him. A sigh left him, unblinking as he turned back to the fog and ocean ahead. Jonah wasn’t sure what else he could do, but Watch  _ The Tundra  _ as it sat a few miles from port, distantly waiting for her captain.

Perhaps it would be polite to pass the news along. 

Jonah was not polite.

Jonah withdrew himself from the echoing ship, the wailing of her hull on steady waters enough to deter him from overseeing an empty deck. 

Jonah stood, silent, preoccupying himself. Unsure of what to say. If there was anything  _ to  _ say. He stood still and for a considerable amount of uncertain time that someone had bothered to notice him in the first place. Jonah noticed it in the twitching of the fog that had made itself welcome at curling by his feet and up his legs, and how hastily it had retreated in the warmth of someone else.

The Watcher silently hoped that when he turned around, there would be that genial grin, devoid of emotion that Jonah had long found comfort in.

It was a silly hope, when he had already been fed knowledge of what transpired.

“Waitin’ for someone?” The person - Robert Andrews, 31, divorced, single father, working at the IT Department a few blocks from here - called as he approached. Jonah didn’t bother to turn his head to address him. His silence persisted, the sharp needles of ice digging further and further into his chest. 

Jonah’s body shuddered an uneasy and pained exhale, attempting to hide his discomfort. 

“I was.” He responded. “But I don’t think they’re coming.”

Jonah’s response, he could tell, drew on a sympathetic frown of concern from Robert Andrews - who’d committed insurance fraud in his past, who’d cheated on his wife a few years ago, who felt guilty ever since that day - and noted Robert Andrews’ slow approach to stand by Jonah’s side

“Oh, I’m… sorry to hear it. Somethin’ happen?” He asked, a question that was innocent on the surface, but really, Jonah couldn’t answer. Not in his truth.

“He went out to sea.” Jonah spoke plainly. “I’m waiting for him to come back.”

Robert Andrews - who loved and cherished his children, who’d really loved his spouse, who’d thrown it all away, who’d made mistake after mistake, who’d never said the things he wished he said - went silent. A man who didn’t know how to use words, and he evidently couldn’t start now.

Jonah broke away from the fog, turning to address Robert Andrews. Blue, sharp eyes pierced the thin veil of the mind, narrowing with the very intensity of the biting morning fog.

“You should go back to Marie and apologise.” Jonah started, “She misses you almost every day. The children, Bonnie and Tiffany, miss you more. They’d be more than willing to forgive you for your transgressions, given that you mean it.”

Robert Andrews - confused, bewildered, perplexed by this strange man with eyes that seemed to unwrap and pierce every layer of his existence - stammered,

“I’m- sorry,  _ what? _ Who are you again? Do I- do I know you?”

“You’re going to keep regretting it if you don’t, Mister Andrews.” Jonah continued. “You’ve never had the courage, and you knew that ever since that night you cheated on her. Go and say something.” Jonah turned his attention back to the sea, to the nothingness beyond. “Or you’ll regret it when she’s gone.”

Robert Andrews shook his head and stumbled backward.  _ Was this a fever dream?  _ He’d thought, which Jonah could so blatantly hear. If it was a sign from any God that possibly existed in this world, this would be it, Robert Andrews.

He fled, leaving Jonah alone with the fog reclaiming the pier.

Jonah’s body shook again. He wasn’t sure why. It ached, and it numbed, and it was  _ almost  _ the same. Almost that comforting, winter drape over his shoulders, a pressed weight against his body. There was no voice that carried with this. There was no hum, no song, no poem that spoke. An empty silence, that permeated everything and anything he’d touched, with no regard of Jonah if he were to leave.

Everything had been soaked in sentiment, and Jonah couldn’t let it go. He didn’t  _ want  _ to let go.

“Good bye, Peter.” Jonah raised his chin, staring out into the ocean. His voice wavered, not in a crack, but in lacking the distinct, sharp edges that his words would cut with. There was no presence in it. 

There was no returning farewell.

Jonah turned on his heel, and started his slow retreat back to his Institute. He turned the collar up on the coat.

The cold ached. His body hurt. 

His heart burned in absence. 

**Author's Note:**

> that's what you get for loving something that cant return it truly, you beholding bitch.
> 
> The Longest Johns did a cover of Crossing The Bar on YouTube. give it a listen. it's so good.


End file.
